


Hereafter I Will Be

by MaskoftheRay



Category: Justice League & Justice League Unlimited (Cartoons)
Genre: Angst, Bruce Feels, Bruce Has Issues, Bruce Needs a Hug, Bruce and Clark are best friends, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Post-Canon, These are some of my favorite episodes, post Hereafter s02 e19, post Hereafter s02 e20
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-16
Updated: 2018-11-16
Packaged: 2019-08-24 09:31:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16637357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaskoftheRay/pseuds/MaskoftheRay
Summary: Based on theJustice Leaguecartoon episode, "Hereafter." But with more of Batman's thoughts.Superman,Clark, is dead. And Bruce couldn't handle that.





	Hereafter I Will Be

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own any of these characters, DC Comics does. As this is a fic based off an episode, I do borrow some dialogue. From _Justice League_ cartoon, season 2, episodes 19 and 20, "Hereafter."

"Death is alive, they whispered. Death lives inside life, as bones dance within the body. Yesterday is within today. Yesterday never dies."

— Luis Alberto Urrea 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

Dead. Dead. Dead. 

The cold and the rain brought Batman back to the present. He was standing in the middle of the wreckage that was downtown Metropolis. Diana held Toyman by the collar, one fist raised. Batman realized, briefly, that if she did it, there would be no one to stop her. Flash appeared. In the distance, a camera clicked. A flicker of red caught Batman’s eye. 

It was a piece of the cape. His cape, weighed down by the rain. Batman bent over and grasped the little piece of red fabric, so insignificant, so _meaningless_. He thumbed it, and felt nothing through the gloves. He felt nothing. 

Dead. Dead. Dead. 

There was a camera crew, the police. The area was closed off to the public, except for a few intrepid reporters. “Batman! Batman! What will happen to the Justice League now?” asked one. Batman paused, brain whirring, spiraling, looping. 

He opened his mouth and had spoken without conscious planning. “We’ll carry on. We always do. Excuse me,” he said, pushing past. _Dead. Dead. Dead. And nothing but a useless, fucking piece of cape left of him_. Batman strode across the destitute battlefield. The rest of the league were busy cleaning up, faces grim. Batman could do nothing. His absence would not be noticed. Unlike _his_. Batman’s throat constricted, suddenly, and he squeezed that lifeline patch of red fabric once more, and imagined it was attached to a cape, attached to a suit, and a living, breathing being still. _Dead. Dead. Dead. And there was nothing I could do_. 

… 

He pressed play again. 

The scream, one born of agony, indignation, shock, echoed through the cave again. _Yes, indignation_ , Batman thought, _because Superman wasn’t supposed to die_. He hesitated to click the replay button again as his throat constricted. Batman scowled and clicked the button. 

“Haaaaaaaaarrrrggggaah!” 

Batman paused the video and brought a hand to his eyes. He squeezed his eyes shut with a sigh, and absently rubbed the bit of scarlet fabric that was all that remained of the man of steel. No. All that _he knew of_ that remained of the man of steel. Superman wasn’t dead. He couldn’t be. Not when it didn’t make _sense_. 

… 

The first thing he had done, once he’d gotten back to the cave, was push aside Alfred, who, naturally, was very concerned. Who, naturally, tried to get Batman to change— “You’re _soaking_ master Bruce”— to eat— “Please, sir. Don’t punish yourself”— to sleep— “you need rest, at a time like this, Master Wayne”— all to no avail. 

Batman ignored all his butler’s pleas and marched straight to the lab. He swept the table clear and dumped the pile of debris he’d collected from the scene onto it. He took the little scrap of red from his belt, trembling slightly, and shoved it under a microscope. Alfred watched from the shadows for a while, perhaps to make sure that Batman did not do anything _extreme_ then retreated. Batman paid that no mind. 

He’d ended up staying up all night in the cave, and that was when he’d noticed the strangeness of all this. There were no energy signatures of any kind. None. He ran every test he knew. He ran them twice. Three times. More. Batman was forced to conclude that it was as if some of the matter had simply disappeared. Which wasn’t possible. Which meant… Superman wasn’t dead. 

… 

“Master Bruce,” interrupted Alfred. Batman bolted upright and minimized the video. Alfred gave him a look, and Batman wanted to growl, “What?” But he knew that he had no reason to feel so… so defensive. He calmly, evenly stared back. When Alfred didn’t move, Batman stuffed the bit of cape back in a pouch in his utility belt. 

“Yes, Alfred?” he growled. 

Alfred hesitated, a spark of something— _it looked like worry_ , Batman noted, irritated— flashing through his eyes. “Sir, the funeral is starting soon…” he said hesitantly. Oh. Batman spun around in his chair again, bringing up more surveillance of the event. 

“Thank you, Alfred,” Batman said dismissively. But he could sense Alfred’s uncertain energy. Which was unusual, as the man typically had no problem with speaking his mind, much to Batman’s chagrin. 

“Sir… are you not attending?” asked the butler neutrally. Batman reviewed the muted footage again, and… there. That was his answer. It was clear that his earlier hypothesis was right. In the footage, Clark hadn’t shown any signs of disintegrating. He’d simply disappeared. Or been transported somewhere. Batman sprang to his feet. 

“No,” he said briskly, once again removing the piece of cape from his belt. Batman strode over to the lab table that had been strewn over with artifacts. “Because Superman isn’t dead.” Alfred was silent a beat, though Batman could practically feel him thinking. 

But all he said was, “I see,” before retreating. 

Batman sighed at the retreat of his loyal butler. His shoulders slumped a moment, and he glanced back on the screen, frozen on Superman. “I’m not crazy, Clark. You’re not dead, I know it. I just have to prove it to the others,” he said. 

… 

The funeral, Batman noted, was something Clark would have hated. It was too grand, too Victorian. There were too many people for Batman’s tastes. And Superman wasn’t dead. Just missing. Not that anybody else knew that. Still, a pang of emotion ran through him, at seeing the rest of the league bearing the empty coffin. He caught himself with his hand in the belt, fingers already grasping at that small security blanket, that scarlet brand. He swallowed. Diana looked up, and met his eyes briefly, as if she’d been expecting him. _Was he so predictable, in his grief?_

Batman swallowed again and turned away. He had work to do. 

… 

“Will you join the league permanently?” asked Diana softly. Imploringly. Hopefully. The second, unsaid part of her sentence echoed in Batman’s head: _now that Superman is dead_. She wanted him to replace the immortal— _not so immortal after all_ , a dark part of Batman remarked snidely— alien god. Who’d done so much good, really had stood for _hope_. She wanted to replace him with Batman. A mortal, and if anything at all like a god, then a god of _fear_. 

“Bruce?” Diana asked softly. 

Batman swallowed. “No. I’ll retain my part-time position. Batman out,” he said, fumbling for the commlink button. _Now that Superman is dead, what will you do?_ NO. He wasn’t dead. Bruce knew it. But… could he be wrong? Batman stroked the small piece of crimson material. Well, it was time for another trip to Metropolis. He needed to investigate the crime scene again anyway. 

… 

The towering hunk of black marble loomed large. It seemed to judge Batman as he approached it, and found him lacking. This gate to the underworld seemed so unfitting for the man of steel. Batman looked around surreptitiously. He was alone. 

The mortal turned in supplication to the monument hewn of black stone for the fallen god. The splash of red, bold as blood, caught his eye. Like the bit of cape, which he still carried in his belt. He addressed his message to it. “I’m beginning to wonder if I might be wrong. I’ve got some things to say,” he began, clearing his throat. 

“I should have said them when you were here, but…” the stone seemed _colder_ as if it knew his sins. _Yes_ , Batman thought, _there were so many things I should have said. But I was too weak. I have never been good with words_. “Despite our differences, I have nothing but respect for you. I hope you knew… _know_ that. You showed me that justice doesn’t always have to come from the darkness. I’ll miss—” a distant explosion strangled Batman’s hesitant speech. He whirled around. The monument seemed to say, _go_. Batman went. 

… 

The shot came out of nowhere. But surprisingly, Batman wasn’t dead. Because just as surprisingly, there was a man, who looked awfully like Clark, but with a month’s worth of beard and hair and strange, tattered clothes. And a _sword_. Bruce threw an explosive bat-a-rang on instinct towards the source of attack. A muffled cry floated down toward the group of heroes, who were all still staring open-mouthed toward the man who _really_ did look like Clark. The man flew off and came back with Deadshot in hand. 

“Superman?” Diana asked. He grinned. _Yes_ , Batman thought, _that was certainly Superman_. 

“We thought you were dead!” said Diana. Some of the league turned to look at Batman, who held himself impassively rigid. 

“I didn’t,” he clarified. There was a beat of silence as the others looked at him. 

Diana strode forward, arms open. “Well we _all_ missed you,” she quipped. Batman stayed silent. 

But his heart beat: alive. Alive. Alive.


End file.
